“I am rather proud of having found that out, Paillot. Tradition should always be taken into account. But when we own Queen Marguerite’s house, we will furbish up the memory of that good Philippe Tricouillard a little.” Hard upon this declaration Dr. Fornerol entered the shop with the wonted impetuosity of that indefatigable visitor of the sick, who brought with him hope and comfort. Gustave Fornerol was a fat, moustachioed man. Possessed in his wife’s right of a small country estate, he affected the fashions of a country proprietor and paid his visits in a soft hat, a hunting waistcoat and leather leggings. Although his practice was exclusively among the lower middle class and the rural population of the suburbs, he was considered the most skilful practitioner in the town. Friendly with Paillot, as with all his fellow-townsmen, he was not in the habit of paying useless visits to him, nor of wasting his time gossiping in the shop. This time, however, he sank down on one of the three rush-bottomed chairs which, set in the old-book corner, had gained for Paillot’s shop the reputation for a hospitality at once literary, learned, cultured, and academic. He puffed, waved a good-day to Paillot with his hand, bowed with some deference to M. de Terremondre, and said: “I am tired. … Well! Paillot, were you pleased with the show yesterday? What did Madame Paillot think of the play and the actors?” The bookseller did not commit himself. He considered that it is wise for a tradesman to express no opinions in his shop. Besides, he went to the theatre only _en famille_, and that but seldom. But Dr. Fornerol, whose position as medical officer to the theatre procured him free passes, never missed a performance. A travelling company had given _la Maréchale_ the night before, with Pauline Giry in the leading part. “She is always capital, is Pauline Giry,” said the doctor. “That’s the general opinion,” said the bookseller. “She isn’t as young as she once was,” said M. de Terremondre, who was turning over the leaves of volume xxxviii. of _l’Histoire Générale des Voyages_. “By Jove, no!” answered the doctor. “You know that Giry isn’t her real name?” “Her real name is Girou,” answered M. de Terremondre authoritatively. “I knew her mother, Clémence Girou. Fifteen years ago Pauline Giry was dark and very pretty.” And the three of them, in the old-book corner, set to work to reckon the actress’s age. But as they were calculating from doubtful or incorrect data, they only reached contradictory, or sometimes even absurd, conclusions, and with these they were by no means satisfied.